


Illogical Traditions

by Xeldablade



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: A Bit of Fluff, F/M, Halloween prompt, and just a dash of Vulcan flirting, mixed with sass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 02:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8427652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xeldablade/pseuds/Xeldablade
Summary: Nyota attempts to introduce Spock to the merits of pumpkin carving.





	

“I fail to see how ridding a cultivar of its interior is a necessary endeavor in celebrating a holiday such as this.”

Nyota looks up from the pumpkin she’s just carved a hole into at the top to see Spock on the opposite end of the table, standing rather rigidly behind his own perfectly round and vibrant orange gourd. She smiles at the memory of him retrieving it; leave it to a Vulcan to choose the most picturesque pumpkin from the five acre patch.

She pulls up on the stem of her own, the smell of the inside filling her nostrils and making her nostalgic of when she would celebrate Halloween with her family as a kid. “It’s tradition, Spock.”

“I have noticed that humans tend to celebrate holidays with several idiosyncratic traditions.”

She looks into her pumpkin and sees its webby orange strands and seeds, contemplating his words. “I mean, I haven’t memorized all of the origin stories of why humans celebrate holidays the way they do, but I’m sure they had their reasons at the time.”

He doesn’t answer, but just looks at his pumpkin with what she’s pretty sure is the Vulcan equivalent of malice, like he has a personal vendetta with the squash. She has to admit that it’s pretty hard to imagine a tenable reason why a tradition such as this one came about, but she’s learned to not question anything like that too much and just go along with it.

Spock, however, did not seem to agree with that sentiment.

By the look on his face, she can tell he’s running through the whole process of emptying the fruit in his head; the slimy texture of the insides and sticking to his skin, the small bits of it that would undoubtedly somehow end up on the table or the floor, depite how careful and clean he tried to be. It was no secret that Spock valued organization and tidiness, so what he’s seeing in his mind’s eye may just be considered to be some kind of Vulcan nightmare. She had originally thought he would prefer this activity to something like an actual party, where they would have to dress up in ridiculous costumes and he would have to attempt to enjoy himself in a room full of drunk people dressed as equally ridiculous. But now that she’s giving it more thought, maybe the more civilized, yet messier idea hadn’t been the better one.

But apparently his thoughts weren’t enough to deter him from the activity completely, because a few seconds later he grabs the knife she set out for him to use and begins to cut a hole at the top just as she had.

Even he can’t manage a perfect circle like she knows he wants to, but he certainly tries. He tugs at the top and looks inside, trying to hide the utter disdain in his face.

It’s not until then that she looks down at her own pumpkin, trying to hide a laugh that she somehow manages to keep quiet. She sticks her hand into it, scooping out a large handful of the slippery goop and tossing it into the trashcan next to her. She doesn’t look at Spock, but she imagines him watching her in silent horror.

“What’s the matter, Spock?” she asks a few seconds later. He still hasn’t moved a muscle. “Are you afraid of the idea of touching pumpkin guts?”

The comment seems to stimulate him into action. His expression when he finally touches the gunk is of obvious displeasure, his eyes a bit wider than usual and the corners of his mouth turned downwards. He mirrors her movements, dropping the slime into his own trashcan before he composes himself and speaks.

“The fibrous strands that compose the pulp of the pumpkin serve the purpose of making the seeds to flourish. It is likely that what you refer to as ‘guts’ could be more accurately termed as placental tissue.”

The playful smile she had falters and her face scrunches up. She takes a minute to observe the strands of orange goo on her hand before she looks up to Spock again. The look on his face is that of smugness, which is entirely unsurprising. The mere idea of ripping out the _placental tissue_ of any kind of organism was a tad bit disturbing to her, and Spock knew it.

If his goal had been for her to feel as uneasy with this process as he was, then he’d gotten his wish. Damn Vulcans.

“Well played, Spock,” she says with narrowing eyes, “well played.”

She subsequently decides not to tease Spock any more during the gouging session of their respective fruits.

They continue in a relative silence, focused on their task and speaking only occasionally. Once he had started to become more accustomed to the idea of the process, Spock seemed to get the hang of it rather quickly. After awhile her hand starts to hurt from gripping her spoon to scrape off the sides, so she deems it to be cleared out well enough after a few minutes of that. She watches Spock’s progress and has to tell him more than once that it’s almost impossible to get the inside cleared out perfectly, but he doesn’t cease in his efforts.

After resting her hand for a moment, peaking into Spock’s pumpkin with impossibly smooth inner walls, and washing their hands thoroughly, Nyota decides to lead them on to the next step.

“Okay, so now that they’re hollowed out, we can carve into the front of them.”

“I do not believe it is necessary to transform a gourd into an impractical object such as a decoration.”

She can’t help but be amused at his reluctance. “Why else would we empty the pumpkin out in the first place, Spock? Now that a candle can go in it, we have to carve it so it can glow however you want and it’ll be nice to look at.”

“It is illogical.”

She smiles at the last word; it was one of his favorites to use. Between the trip to the pumpkin patch to her numerous explanations of Halloween traditions like wearing costumes and trick-or-treating, he had somehow managed to not label anything as ‘illogical’ specifically, just express his confusion at such strange customs. His final straw to succumbing to human traditions seemed to be the one that required him to have some artistic creativity. She had to admit; the fact that it had taken this long for him to use the actual word was a meritorious achievement.

“No, it’s not logical. But when has anything fun ever been logical?”

She crouches slightly and begins to draw on her pumpkin with a pencil as an outline, and soon notices that Spock hasn’t followed suit and just stands there. She sighs and stands up straight again. “I know you don’t really understand the purpose of this, but it doesn’t have to be anything spectacular, Spock. Maybe just a little bit creative. Most people like to carve faces, so you could do that. Or maybe a picture of something you like, or even words if you want. I’ve seen you write Vulcan script, so you could even do some calligraphy if you don’t know what else to do.” She moves her head forward to search for his eyes. “Okay?”

He blinks. His eyes slide from hers to the villainous squash, back to her. There’s still apprehension there, but he picks up a nearby pencil regardless. “Very well.”

She nods and begins to draw the eyes of her jack-o’-lantern when a mischievous smile creeps up on her face.

“We can make it a competition, you know,” she jokes. “The best carving wins?”

He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. The closest things they had to contests with each other were those of chess games, most of which Spock won. Nyota tended to be a competitive person, but with Spock it was different. Even though he almost always won chess, she appreciated that he never went easy on her and always wanted to see her improve.

Still, it was a fun challenge to go against him every now and then. But she doesn’t expect him to accept her proposal, since he’s never really been one to submit to playing games besides chess and the occasional match of scrabble.

So it’s to her astonishment when he doesn’t refuse her suggestion. He only looks at her for a long second before he responds. “If you wish.”

The shock that appears on her face fades at the same rate that her concentration grows. She decides not to design anything too fancy, knowing herself well enough to not trust her own carving abilities. Not that she was bad at it, per se, but she could never pull off anything spectacular, either. She was always able to make her creations with a simple steak knife and nothing else.

Spock, on the other hand, seems to require more than that. He retrieves additional utensils from the kitchen; a paring knife and a potato peeler among other things. He switches between all the utensils rather frequently, and he looks as though he’s an expert at this. She watches the way his eyes fixate on the objects in front of him and how his lips are slightly parted, like how they always are when he’s engrossed deeply into something. He’s so fixated on the task at hand that he doesn’t even seem to notice the tiny orange glob that had managed to cling to bottom of his left cheek.

It’s endearing, but it’s also distracting. More than once she finds herself looking over her pumpkin and staring at him, partially to appreciate his features and partially at acknowledge how strange it was to see Spock partake in something as crafty as this. 

He’s able to maintain his focus for the most part. But throughout his carving endeavor, she catches him glancing up at her on occasion. It’s brief but it’s also enlightening, in the sense that it makes her more aware of her own heartbeat and how warm the room has gotten.

And she must have been staring more than she thought, because when she finally completes with her simple design, he is nearly finished with his own, which is obviously more complex. She still hasn’t seen his finished product yet since the plump canvas facing away from her, so she figures they can reveal them to each other at the same time.

When he decides that he’s done, they place a candle in their hollowed pumpkins and use a lighter to make the soft flames. She gives her creation one last look—a relatively generic design, not unlike the type of jack-o’-lantern you’d see in the windows of an old café—and a quick nod of approval before she looks back up at Spock.

“You ready?”

He makes one final touch with a paring knife before placing it back on the table. “I believe so.”

“Alright, we’ll show each other on the count of three.”

He nods and doesn’t comment on the impractical need for a countdown.

“Okay,” she says, placing her hands on either side of the jack-o’-lantern and getting ready to turn it. “One, two, three!”

The instant her eyes see Spock’s masterpiece, her expression turns into a full-fledged gape. She recognizes the image the second she sees it; as she should, because it’s the same thing that she sees in the mirror every single day.

He’s carved her face with impeccable accuracy. It’s as clear as a picture; she can practically see the color of her eyes, and how the glow of the candle highlights her skin and creates the illusion of depth to her nose and lips among other features. She notices the arch of the ponytail she wears when she’s in uniform, the delicate curve of her jaw, her eyebrows represented with perfect precision.

The details are uncanny; so uncanny that she has to remind herself that he did this all on his own. She watched him the whole time so she knows it must be the truth. There was no outline he used, the only reference being her face. He’d carved this by himself, molding the image of her using only his hands and the rudimentary utensils he just happened to find in the kitchen.

To say she is speechless is a gross understatement.

“Oh,” she breathes, her hand finding its way to cover her mouth, “my _god_.”

“Is this satisfactory?”

She wants to look at him, but she can’t take her eyes off his artwork. “Spock, it’s…how did you _do_ that?” She shakes her head slightly. “It’s incredible.”

“I required only patience and adequate carving tools in order to procure the final product, as well as a point of reference.”

She tries to observe his masterpiece as much as she can, but it’s more difficult now since the tears that she won’t let spill over from her eyes are making everything blurry. She can’t even begin to imagine how to express how she feels to him, how he makes her so happy, and how much she appreciates his efforts. And not just for his artwork of her, but for doing this with her in the first place. Halloween was one of her favorite days of the year when she was younger, and she missed spending the day with her family. When she told him this he offered to celebrate the day with her in their stead, and she couldn’t convey in words just how grateful she was for that. It was a gesture that she wouldn’t soon forget.

When she finds her voice again it’s shaky, but she makes it work. “Well…I think it’s safe to say that you won the competition.”

“On the contrary,” he says as he steps closer to her and looks at her pumpkin thoughtfully, “I do not believe you specified the parameters of the appraisal. Should the objective of this competition be based upon the premise of creativity, I believe your entry is better suited for commendation. You procured your idea exclusively from imagination, whereas I required you as a reference.”

“Ok,” she says softly. She bites her lip to keep herself smiling too wide, and she fails. “Sure.”

“In addition,” he continues, close enough to her now that she can feel the heat of his breath. “Your entry resembles more traditional decorations in accordance to standard Halloween embellishments.”

“Spock—”

“Also, it is likely that yours would be more effectively appreciated by others. As for mine, only those who know you personally would be able to fully—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, the words on his lips replaced by the press of Nyota’s instead. He doesn’t seem to object to the interruption, and kisses her back with the same amount of passionate delicacy as her. A certain warmth runs through her, like a candle’s been lit in her heart that spreads throughout her veins. Her hand finds his cheek and she rubs off the stray pumpkin strand with her thumb. He lets her pull him closer, and she’s able to feel the heat of his hands from where they hold her waist. She can feel his joy and satisfaction from the touch of their skin, and she’s comforted by the thought that he’s capable of sensing her love and gratitude in turn.

It’s obvious that Spock had won the contest, no matter how much he insisted otherwise. But she thinks that if she had to lose to somebody, then Spock wasn’t such a bad choice.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: The Time That Spock Carved a Pumpkin and Got Laid Immediately After


End file.
